From Where We Stand
by Elliotsmelliot
Summary: For Jin, Sayid and Bernard, their memories never stray far from the island and even miles apart, their fates are still intertwined.


Los Angeles

2005

"Mr. Kwon, do you understand?"

Jin can't quite grasp what the doctor is saying. The man's words are too dense, his lips move too quickly, however his pinched expression suggests there is something very wrong with Sun or the baby or both. Jin's English always flees when he's anxious and the complicated medical terminology is a foreign language unto itself. Still, he knows he's missing familiar words because he's out of practice.

Before they arrived in Los Angeles, he had accumulated a fairly large vocabulary and could carry a basic conversation with everyone except Desmond, whose accent perturbed even some of the native speakers. Now, with access to a Korean television channel and Koreatown close to his and Sun's Wilshire Park condo, Jin could go for days without having to hear, let alone, speak English. Words, pronunciation and syntax constantly slipped away, as if they were only ever guests in his memory, never permanent residents.

Sun had been pestering him to start ESL classes but she had stopped insisting they speak English together, claiming she was too tired to think in another language. In the last month, his wife's world had extended from the bedroom to the bathroom to the couch, each step an exercise against gravity. If she was feeling particularly adventurous, she would waddle to the balcony for some fresh air but the heat would force her inside quickly.

Once they passed Juliet's deadline without complications, Sun had been impatient for her pregnancy to be over. Jin felt otherwise. If possible, he would like to have kept Sun pregnant forever. To him, she had never looked more beautiful and he believed, even though he was aware that the opposite was true, as long as the baby stayed inside her, his little family would remain safe.

When she had shaken him awake tonight, he had felt the wetness on the sheets before she could explain. He had hid his relief that the fluid was clear, not the flood of red he always imagined.

"Now?"

"Now, Sweet, the baby is coming." Her voice had sounded as certain as her body appeared. "I've already called the hospital."

He had moved efficiently, helping Sun dress, gathering her things, stripping the bed. It was only when she doubled over in garage that he began to panic. Even as he gently rubbed her back and whispered soothing words, he had an urge to hit something: a wall, a window, some stranger's car or face with his fist. It was partly because he wanted to feel the same pain she did, maybe if he did, he could draw it out of her. As well, the sight of Sun's face crumpled in agony triggered a violent response, an instinct, if he was honest, that predated the island.

"Mr. Kwon, do you understand?"

A nurse thrusts a clipboard in Jin's hands and indicates he should sign a form. He has figured out they want his permission to do something but he doesn't know what he could be giving away by putting pen to paper. He should trust the doctor to do his job but there's too much at risk to put blind faith in a man just because he's wearing a white coat. Yet he's equally sure there is little time to waste debating the matter.

It's all happening too fast. The baby's three weeks early. This is not Sun's regular obstetrician. He can't reach anyone they know in Los Angeles which seems to defeat their purpose in staying here, rather than returning to Seoul.

Jin refuses to take the clipboard. He shakes his head and says, "No."

A wave of compassion seeps through the doctor's frustrated face. "Christ…Laurie call Neurology, see if Dr. Houng is on tonight. Maybe she can come down and translate. And page Shephard again."

One of the few words Jin recognizes is Jack's name and he perks up. It was not so long ago he expected Jack to be delivering his child. Even though his friend's steadiness had recently been replaced with a raw frantic energy, Jin would feel better if Jack was here now. It's not just his professional knowledge that would be helpful, Jin yearns for an ally familiar with the island's curses. When they left, they thought the worst was behind them but calamity had followed them ashore, hitting Sayid first, then Rose and now Sun.

A nurse appears from the delivery room to hand the doctor a printout. His face falls, indicating there is no time to wait for someone to interpret Jin's words or fears. The doctor flips over a page in Sun's chart and sketches a stick figure with a round middle and a little stick figure inside the circle. He draws a little heart next to the circle, with an arrow beside it pointing down.

"Your baby's blood pressure has fallen and your wife still hasn't regained consciousness. I know there were concerns about uterine rupture which is why a Caesarean was originally ruled out but we need to get the baby out now."

It's hard for Jin to envision his wife and child as these crude drawings but he still flinches when the doctor's pen slashes across the page, indicating the baby will be cut out of Sun. He now understands what is being suggested. Originally, the doctors at St. Sebastian's had recommended a natural delivery. Sun's uterus had been diagnosed as overly fragile and having a Caesarean increased the risk of post-surgical haemorrhaging. It would also drastically reduce her chances of carrying another child.

Jin had not felt this helpless since his capture by the Others, another night where Sun's fate had depended on a balance of resolve, compromise and improvisation. In the end, it had only been sheer luck that she had survived his failure. Tonight he is bound and gagged by his own ignorance and stubbornness. He should have known that here, English would be as an important a survival tool as food, water, weaponry and friends had been on the island. He vows to be the one to teach his son or daughter English, as well as Korean, and a dozen other languages if they so desire.

"It's what's best for both of them." The doctor holds Jin's gaze firmly and grips both of his shoulders, trying to pass his promise on through sound, sight and touch. His patience and gentle steeliness reminds Jin of Sayid.

At this point, that's enough to tip the balance in the doctor's favour and Jin reluctantly accepts this stranger as a new ally. He scratches his name across the form. The doctor and nurse disappear back into the delivery room, leaving him alone in the corridor. He stands frozen, staring at the swinging doors until they fall still.

A new nurse appears and escorts him to a waiting room. She sits with him but Jin doesn't really notice her. He closes his eyes and all he sees is red. Throughout Sun's pregnancy, Jin has been haunted by the image of blood: blood pouring out of his wife, blood pouring out of his baby, even blood pouring out of himself, because surely he could not remain full of life if he loses one or both of them.

x x x

Buffalo

2006

_Raindrops keep falling on my head_

_And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed_

Bernard always listens to music while he works. Unless the patient objects, he alternates between FM 97.8 the easy listening station and AM 104.0 which features Oldies from the 50s, 60s and 70s. He enjoys contemporary music too but when he's in the middle of a procedure he looks forward to the reassurance of a familiar lyric or rhythm transcending the noise of the drill or his own concentration. He's known other dentists who use music as a template to guide specific treatments. One of his former partners, an oral surgeon, considered it a success if he could extract all four wisdom teeth before the first act of La Traviata concluded. Bernard just likes to have it on in the background, the musical equivalent of white noise.

_Nothing seems to fit __Those raindrops are falling on my head, they keep falling_

It's Friday, the day his office closes early, and there were two cancellations so he had a light schedule: seven cavities, four on the same patient, a root canal, and six exams. He prefers a much fuller day but he had been up most of the night worrying about Sayid so perhaps this was for the best. A blessing in disguise, Rose would say.

_But there's one thing I know  
The blues they send to meet me won't defeat me  
It won't be long till happiness steps up to greet me_

His first patient was a lovely little girl about to turn one who proudly showed off a mouth half full of teeth and giggled when Bernard pretended her bite hurt him. Her smile fondly reminded him of Joo-Eun, Sun and Jin's daughter, whose photo adorned his fridge at home. Her first birthday was approaching and he had been invited to Los Angeles to join what undoubtedly would be a big celebration. He had arranged to take a few days off but had delayed booking a ticket.

_Raindrops keep falling on my head  
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red  
_

His next three patients went by in a blur, the only distinction being the woman whose breath smelled like sauerkraut. He took a walk at lunch and ate his peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich, with the crusts cut off them, under a tree. Just like a schoolboy, Rose would say. He stopped by a newsstand to buy a chocolate bar to eat on his way back. When he returned to his office, he washed his hands and face, flossed and brushed, and tidied his hair. On his desk he found messages from the News, the Post, the Times, and the local television station - all looking for a quote from him. The grand jury must have been reached their verdict.

_Crying's not for me  
'Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complaining_

Bernard ignores the messages and goes back to the work. The afternoon was fairly routine until the arrival of Mr. Hatcher. Most of his patients treated the return of their dead dentist with great respect, rarely alluding to the tabloidesque rumours that hovered over his unworldly experience. Hatcher, an elderly man with rotted teach, was the exception. He came to each appointment with a string of questions and opinions and was not deterred by his dentist's monosyllabic responses. Bernard tolerated this because he knew Hatcher was more nervous than anything else. The longer he engaged Bernard in conversation, the longer he could delay his treatments. Today he knew Hatcher's questions would be about Sayid so he hid in his office until his assistant, Marcia, prepped him and inserted the dental dam, thus preventing the possibility of small talk.

_Because I'm free  
Nothing's worrying me_

Even with the questions left unasked, Bernard grew flummoxed, wondering about the verdict. Had there been enough evidence? Had his testimony been that harmful? Halfway through the root canal, he asked Marcia to turn off the music. The song was one of his favourites but it was distracting him. Even after she turned it off, he could still hear it playing.

_Raindrops keep falling on my head_

Then his hands began to shake. Bernard removed his instruments from Hatcher's mouth and placed them on the tray. He pulled down his mask because he was finding it hard to breath. He felt like he was watching himself do all this from afar, in slow motion. He excused himself and fled to his desk, sat in his chair and put his head between his legs.

He had two panic attacks before, one on the island and one since they got back. The first had been just after they found the radio. Hours later, Bernard believed he could still hear a young man's voice calling to him. Then he had begun to shake and his chest went tight. He thought he was having a heart attack and believed he was going to die. At least he would be with Rose, he had thought, giving up hope for the first time that she was still alive.

Libby had talked him through it, explained to him that he was just having a panic attack. He would find his wife soon and they would all go home together. What she said hadn't really mattered; it was the sound of her calm quiet voice that eventually brought him out of it.

Rose had done the same thing when it happened again. He had been in the grocery store, a few months after they got back. Usually Rose did the shopping. Even before the island he would get flustered by all the choices. Now it was a thousand times worse, all the food laid out like a buffet: bright red meat behind the counter, freshly baked bread on display, fruit piled in neat pyramids, nary a bruise or fly to be seen. This time it was the canned goods that got to him. Rows upon rows of everything one could possibly desire, packaged in a tiny metal container. It was all his for the taking.

He had filled up two carts worth of cans. By the time he had gone through the cash, he had decided he would use them to stock the bomb shelter he would build in their basement, just like his Uncle had done in the 1950s. It was only after he had squeezed all the bags into the trunk and the backseat that he broke down. He had rested his head against the steering wheel and cried and cried. Like before, he couldn't stop shaking. When he finally had the sense to call Rose, she had told him to not to worry, she was on her way. She kept him on the phone the whole time, as she went next door to borrow the neighbour's car, drove to the store and found him in the parking lot. Then she had just held him.

When they got home, she had teased him about all the canned pie filling he had bought. Peach. Apple. Rhubarb. Strawberry. Something called Banana-Pineapple Dream. How did he expect her to bake pies in a bomb shelter?

Neither Rose nor Libby were here to talk him through today's attack; one was buried thousands of miles away, the other, a mere four blocks.

_Raindrops keep falling on my head. Raindrops keep falling on my head. Raindrops keep falling on my head._

The lyrics turned over and over in his head. Intermixed with this was Hatcher calling him a hero and the sound of the little girl who looked liked Joo-Eun giggling. Then everything went quiet.

He was back at the beach, kneeling in the sand, his head bowed. Then the order came. At the time he had never seen the man who told their captors to kill Jin but he imagined him a variable giant among men. If he hadn't lost his sense of humour that night, he would have chuckled when he eventually met Ben.

_No, wait. No.__ No please. A radio tower. They're hiking to a radio tower. A woman, parachuted here. She has a satellite phone and they're gonna call her ship. A kid, told us, he came in a canoe, and he warned us. Karl. He said his name was Karl._

The memory floods Bernard with shame. He never told Rose what he had done. She had called him her hero when they met up again and he realized now it was Rose's voice repeating that word in his ear now, not Hatcher's.

He wasn't a hero, but not because of the way he had acted under pressure that night. That could be forgiven. No one expected him to be a soldier like Sayid or a leader like Jack. But he had failed as a husband. Just as Jin had done everything in his power to get Sun off the island, he should have insisted they stay behind, like John.

But Rose had said she was ready to leave when the rescue boat arrived. In the end, she decided, the island's gifts came with too many sacrifices. How could she take comfort in her good health when so many of their friends had encountered only death and destruction? And so tragedy had followed them home.

And now he might have failed as a friend too. Somewhere, someone must be appreciating the irony that Sayid had survived one of Bernard's panicked confessions only to be doomed by another. He should have known revealing the inhaler incident on the stand was too risky, even if the way Rose had told him the story made Sayid look like a leader, not a monster.

Bernard lifted his head to look at his computer. A quick glance at would reveal if Sayid would have to stand trial for terror and murder charges. He opened the internet but he couldn't bring himself to discover the verdict just yet. Instead he typed the address for and booked a ticket to Los Angeles. He would help the Kwons celebrate their daughter's first birthday.

By the time he finished the transaction, he had stopped shaking. Accentuate the positive, Rose would say.

x x x

Sydney

2006

"_Sayid Jarrah is a dangerous man."_

"_No, no, he only did that to save us."_

"_Yeah, he hit me a few times, but hell, I deserved it."_

"_You don't understand. You weren't there."_

It's already dusk when Sayid exits the courthouse but he blinks as if he's being blinded by sunlight; it's simply the rush of fresh air and the open sky and all the other symbols of freedom which stun him. There's money in his wallet and a new passport in his suit jacket. Tomorrow he could be anywhere. It's a deceptive liberty though, no doubt wherever he goes, whenever he travels, he will forever be noticed and watched. Still this is a moment to savour, so he takes it in, before stepping into the car.

There had been no apologies, no cathartic announcement of "not guilty". The grand jury hearings had been a closed door affair, to which even he was rarely allowed to attend. Fifteen months of incarceration and horrifying accusations ended with a memo arriving at his lawyer's office stating the Attorney General had been unable to prove probable cause or reasonable suspicion for a full trial. Sayid Jarrah, you are free to go.

He sinks into the soft leather seat and closes his eyes. He's followed by his lawyer and his cousin, Zaid, who gives the driver the hotel's address, and then there is silence, of which Sayid is appreciative. The day's events are still ringing in his ears and he senses this drive will be the only opportunity to gather himself for several more hours.

Sayid surprises himself by falling asleep and when he wakes he catches a glimpse of the ocean and the arced roof of the Opera House. Although he's been in Sydney for more than a year, outside of his guard's accents, there's been little else to ground his reality or remind him that he had returned to where it all started, with Essam and Flight 815; one disaster after another that became inextricably linked in his absence from this country, from this world.

On the rescue boat, Jack had confided in him about Kate's precarious legal situation and John had once alluded to something similar with Sawyer. So when the ship had docked in Maui, Sayid was not surprised to see the police waiting, though he thought perhaps the turnout was excessive given who they were attempting to bring in. He picked out sharpshooters on the marina's roof and there were several squadrons of uniformed officers holding back the media and the crowds who had flocked to greet the survivors. Hanging in the back were the suits, U.S. Marshalls or F.B.I., he had guessed.

They didn't wait for the survivors to disembark; instead a S.W.A.T. team had rushed aboard. Although he had no idea they were coming for him, he couldn't help perceive them as a threat and he saw most of friends react the same way, stepping back, going white, some reaching for weapons that were no longer at their sides. It wasn't until they were a few feet away that he saw the words Counterterrorism in bright yellow scrawled across their vests and he guessed their target was neither Kate nor Sawyer. Two officers flew at him and nearly knocked him over the boat's railing in their effort to pull him to the ground.

He knew fighting back would only make it worse but it took every inch of control not to defend himself, though those standing next to him had no objection in attempting to free him. Had he been able to speak, he would have urged Hurley and Jin to remain calm, surely, this was a misunderstanding, a case of mistaken identity.

Even then he had suspected it would be more complicated than that.

The speed in which the authorities moved suggested to him someone always had a contingency plan in place in case the survivors of Flight 815 were found and Sayid had been the scapegoat identified from the beginning. They needed something to deflect attention away from the survivor's stories. An Arab man on the plane was the starting point but it was an added bonus that he had been part of Saddam's inner circle or at least that's how the press later reported his service with the Republican Guard. He was also identified as the leader of an Islamic extremist cell operating in Australia who had evaded American intelligence officers just hours before boarding Flight 815.

That might have been enough to try him in the court of public opinion but his accusers needed more evidence to lock down their charges. Whether it was bribery or coercion or simply the effects of being brainwashed by the Others, Cindy Chandler eagerly denounced Sayid a few days after his arrest, claiming to have noticed his suspicious behavior on board the flight and identifying him as the murderer of a number of passengers on the island.

Boone. Eko. Charlie. She tried to pin their mysterious deaths on him, if not directly then by his suggestion, characterizing these as his clever attempts to rid himself of a rival, a false prophet and a potential savior. And Shannon. She dared, dared imply Shannon's blood was on his hands. That was unforgivable.

Sayid had been taken from the ship to a solitary cell at a federal prison in Honolulu. In this period he wasn't questioned. He wondered if they believed interrogation was useless on a man with his skills. His requests and later demands to see a lawyer were ignored and at no time was he made aware of the charges against him. After a month, just when he had begun to believe he would be left to rot in his cell forever, he was told he had a visitor.

He shuffled into the tiny visiting room, wearing a bright orange jumpsuit, feet and hands shackled. For some reason he expected to see Ben, magically appearing out of thin air to mock him. He had to admit who he found waiting was more extraordinary.

The two men did not speak until the guard left them.

"Sergeant."

"Mr. Jarrah."

"Is your friend waiting outside with a wooden box?"

"Son, I'm not here in the capacity you would expect. I'm here because my daughter says you're innocent."

"Your daughter?"

"My step-daughter, Kate." Sam Austen had pulled out a photo and slid it across the table. Sayid recognized a smiling teenage Kate standing next to the man seated in front of him. He contained his surprise, not fully believing this was not some sort of trick. "She would be here herself but you're a difficult man to see and well, to be honest, she's having her own difficulties."

"And you're going to help me?" It had been phrased as a question but asked in a tone that suggested Sayid had great doubts.

"Myself and a few other people. Mr. Reyes has arranged for legal counsel. As soon as you're extradited to Australia, you'll be able to finally meet with them. I'm not going to lie. The evidence they've built is very strong and frankly the stories your fellow survivors have been telling does not offer a credible alternative for the crash or your time away."

"Terrorism is much easier to swallow than monsters, cults, electromagnetic pulses and an island that can't be found."

"Unfortunately."

That had been over a year ago. Sayid had never met with Sam again but he had delivered on his promise to help, uncovering two key pieces of evidence: paperwork proving that Sayid had helped the Americans during Desert Storm (and he made it sound entirely voluntarily) and the name of a CIA agent willing to confirm, if nothing else, that Sayid had infiltrated Essam's terror cell on their behalf in 2004. Without those, it wouldn't have mattered how long or hard the other survivors had defended him.

The car stops outside the hotel and Zaid smiles encouragingly, as he had throughout the trial. Their mothers had never been close and Sayid had not seen his cousin in twenty years but their shared experience with war and loss and now this ordeal had made them as close as brothers. If any good came of this, at least his notoriety had made it easier to find the remains of his scattered family, those who dared acknowledge him. Sadly, the one person he wanted to find most of all still remained hidden from him.

A few reporters and photographers accost them in the lobby but his lawyer and Zaid flank him like bodyguards, freeing Sayid of any obligation to meet their nosy eyes. He almost wishes they would offer him the same protection at the party, even though he will be surrounded for the first time in what feels like an eternity with only people he trusts.

"He's here!" Hurley must have been listening for the elevator's ding because his head pops out as soon as Sayid steps foot into the hallway.

The gathering is not as big as Sayid feared, just his legal team, Hurley, Claire and Aaron (if that sturdy toddler could really be the child he had last seen as an infant), Zaid's wife Farrah, the Imam and a few members from the largest mosque in Sydney, and surprisingly Sawyer.

Two bottles of champagne are popped, one alcoholic and the other just sparkling juice; glasses are passed and raised. Sayid is relieved when no one calls for a speech. He would prefer to give thanks privately at another time. He's is overwhelmed by the kindness and generosity of the people in this hotel suite, something he'll need to focus on in the days and weeks to come, to ensure that hatred and bitterness do not engulf him.

Messages are read from those abroad who were unable to stay for the entire grand jury investigation. Jin and Sun. Jack. Desmond. Danielle and Alex. Shortly after, Bernard phones, even though it must be the middle of night in New York. Amid the joy, Sayid can hear the strain in his voice and he is pleased to finally be able to express his condolences about Rose.

In return, Bernard stammers and apologizes for his problematic deposition. Sayid insists all is forgiven and thanks him for his trouble. As devastating as it was to his case, especially from one of his own witnesses, Sayid can't help feel Bernard was right to reveal the inhaler incident. He might not have been a terrorist but he was an expert in afflicting terror, something he knows he will have to account for eventually, if not in this life, then in another.

When he puts the phone down, Sawyer is standing in front of him.

"I'm taking off. I've got a flight to catch. If I don't leave now, they might never let me go."

"Thank you for coming. I heard your testimony was, shall we say, illuminating."

"I just threw all their crap back at them, for what good it did. It helped that the Aussies had a precedent for not liking me. I think they only let me back in the country with hopes you would torture me again."

He means it lightly, but the memory still stings for both of them. Despite everything that came after, it will always hang between them. "Thank you all the same. Travel safe."

"You too."

Claire is the next to leave. If Aaron wasn't a heavy mass asleep on her shoulder, Sayid would have broken all decorum to embrace her. Instead he took her free hand in both of his and squeezed it gently. After Sam's evidence, Sayid has no doubt that it was her testimony that won him his freedom. According to his lawyer, she had put on quite the performance, playing the image bestowed on her by the media to the hilt, their blonde haired and blue eyed darling, part Virgin Mary, part jungle princess. His lawyer had said even the prosecutor appeared cowed by her poignant recollections of their time together and her repeated insistence that Sayid was nothing short of a hero.

Beside Claire's sweetness and light, Cindy had looked shriveled and dark, a fact that Sayid took no pleasure in, given how important appearances were in this entire circus. Just as he couldn't blame Bernard for his gaff, he couldn't entirely hold Cindy responsible for her choices. She was just one more pawn. Sayid was never exactly sure who was behind his accusations. He suspected Oceanic was merely the public face of his persecution. Their experiences on the island had proved there were forces willing to do anything to protect the island.

The rest of his guests filter out one by one until only Zaid is left.

"Now what, cousin?"

"I have not the slightest idea."

"That's unlikely. If I remember correctly, you were always one for ideas."

Sayid sits on the edge of the bed which takes up most of the bedroom. He is not sure if he has ever slept in a bed so large, at least never alone. He fingers the heavy comforter, but doesn't respond.

"Farrah and I have a spare room in our house in Karbala. The children are already referring to it as Uncle's room."

"That is very kind of you."

"I sense a 'but'..."

"But I'm not sure I'm ready to go home."

He will go back, eventually, but not for good. When he first left Iraq, it was because it had become unrecognizable. Now he thinks the insecurity of the land would be all too familiar. However, there are not a lot of other attractive options. He has offers to visit the homes of his friends but even that strikes him as equally impossible, for now.

"I understand. Our home will always be open to you, Sayid." Zaid reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a small envelope. "I should give this to you now. She asked me to wait for an appropriate time."

Sayid recognizes the handwriting on the envelope as being the same from the photo that had traveled so far with him. His name is written on the front in a precise script of graceful curves and dashes that suggests equal care was given to words, as to the penmanship. Even after Zaid leaves, Sayid waits to open it. He leaves it on the night table resting against the lamp. He will read it in the morning.

He dreams it contains a compass.

x x x


End file.
